Ambiguous
by AndanielLight
Summary: It's a journal of Lily Castellanos, about the best partners she used to know her whole life.


Uncle Jo was a nice guy.

Daddy said that he'd been friends— _partners_ with him for more than 8 years, and... well, because he had visiting us often time to time—almost everyday because he needed to pick up my daddy to go to work with him, and drove him back again to our home, I think I'm confident enough to tell that I know everything about him... I think. Hmm, but let's see. For example, how about we start from this one.

He has this simple black-framed glasses that he'd wore since the very first time he met my daddy. Or even maybe, since long ago before that. It's his favorite. He said it's special; his grandpa gave it to him. Then... well, up until now, there's nothing more I know about it besides that. And I can't help but to question about how would it feel if I can wear them. Yet unfortunately, not even my daddy, his best friend, could wear them. Because it's really important to him. He said it's like having a dominant arm; you shouldn't take it off and hand it to someone else. And I had no idea how it would feel. How did he even know about how it feels, though?

"If I put off this glasses... like this," he said once, as he actually slipped off the glasses from his face, and blinked twice before throwing a smile on me, then he squinted his eyes. "I can no longer tell the difference between you and a beautiful little flower." I chuckled at that, and I heard him mumbling. "But, oh wow... I think I've forgotten just how blurry everything is without this thing." As he slipped it back again to the bridge of his nose, and looked around.

It was on June if only I'm not mistaken. Summer? Spring? I don't know. Well, I didn't know. Daddy or mommy haven't told me about things like that before, but one thing that I know is that the weather was pretty nice. Sun shining and crystal blue sky; that was how Uncle Jo usually describe it to me. He just sat there, on our wooden table-chair (it's flat and almost looks like a short table for me, so I kept mistaking it as a table when it's actually... a bench? I... am not sure myself.), leaning back, trusting his arms length stretched back would support his weight. Tilting his head by looking around our not-so-wide backyard. Though he often came here, yet it seemed that he had never got bored at the same view every each time.

"Uncle Jo, are you tired?" I asked him when I heard him sighing. His neck got a little bit twisted as he looked upon something pretty far away from us in uncomfortable angle. I waited for an answer, but he looked like he doesn't listen to me at all. So I finally decided to just stay quiet, and tried to follow his gaze. _Eyes like honey,_ my daddy once said about his eyes. _No. More like two cups of tea,_ mommy followed with a nod. It'd always amazed me. _He's a bold guy,_ mommy once concluded. _But he's really kindhearted,_ said my daddy when we were alone. _He's a brilliant detective._

 _"Daddy, what does 'detective' mean?"_ I asked right away. He looked at me, hesitated, then pulled me up just so he could carry me on his shoulders.

"It's my job, little angel. And it's Uncle Joseph's job, too."

"What kind of job?" I continued, as I slowly and carefully tried to braid his hair.

"It's a... It's a job about finding something. Looking for something. One of it's like evidences. We catch bad people, too. We look for bright things, and dark things. And either it's visible, or invisible. But I think it's mostly like... a job where you're looking for something that you and everybody thought that it had lost, but it's actually not. It's right in front of you. It's just... invisible. Eh, I don't know. Some kind like that?" He turned his head a little to face me with funny expression, but I was too dedicated to the braids that he could only manage to move his head the slightest. "Does my answer satisfy you, mistress?" he asked again after a moment.

"It's a hard job, then?"

I heard a sigh escaped his mouth, then daddy said 'mhm'.

"Well, everything seems difficult if you don't try hard enough." He told me.

"Yeah..." I mumbled, concentrating at the braids. "Just... like... ugh, this. Daddy, can you make your hair longer for me to braid it?" he chuckled and nodded. Then I felt satisfied; but that was before I decided to keep talking. "But, if Uncle Jo is a... b-bli...br..." Wait, what was that word?

"Brilliant detective, yes..." Daddy said right away, and I got very relieved.

"That. Then, he's a smart person? Like, reaaally smart?" I saw him nodded once again as he caressed my hair; a habit, he committed. "I like smart people. I want to learn from them. I bet everyone likes Uncle Jo, and daddy, too."

"Oh, yeah. He is." He said as he wiggled his eyebrows once, and a tiny smile was upon his face. That made me realized something.

"But if everyone likes him..." I wondered, "Why no one wants to be like mommy to you, to him, daddy?" I continued, as I started to get confused on my own confusion. Just, wait a minute. It was _right,_ wasn't it? Did I said it wrong? And daddy didn't answer it right away. He just... turned his head straight ahead. He just stayed quiet. And the silence was something scary and uncomfortable for me, so I had my mind on his braided hair instead. I don't know. Sometimes my daddy can be like that type of different person when he just decided to stay quiet. I wonder, does or did Uncle Jo has to deal with this other side of him, too, everyday?

 _He's so pristine,_ I remember my mommy asked this question to daddy. _The gloves... are those really necessary?_ (Ah, yes. This one thing, too. Another Uncle Jo's favorite thing—the black leather gloves.). Daddy just laughed it off. Daddy told mommy it's funny. _Why is it funny?_ Mommy asked. _Because when I asked the same thing to him, he told me that those gloves are the reason of why he wouldn't get married in the future,_ explained my daddy as he kept chuckling.

 _"Why would he say that, daddy?"_ I asked straight ahead, because I was so curious and confused. And I think those things weren't right or even alright. I saw something on daddy's eyes as he turned his head to me, but he didn't say anything. How pitiful, there's no answer. Up until now and still nothing.

So, instead of just wipe it off from my memories, I asked Uncle Jo right away in another day after that in their office (because mommy got some business, and since daddy got no cases for his detective job...).

"Who told you that?" was his first reaction. And as I stared up his face, I swear it was not just my eyes, but he got really pale. "Lily, was it Seb—your daddy who told you that?" he asked once more. And I nodded; he got dumbfounded. But after a moment of silence he said can he leave me alone for a minute because he needed to go to the bathroom, and I said okay. In the next morning I hadn't had the chance to see Uncle Jo coming to my house to pick up my daddy, and daddy suddenly turned into someone who'd got a headache the whole week.

 _This is killing me,_ my daddy told my mommy when he got home after work. Looking all messed up from head to toe. _I can't really do it without a partner. But he IS my partner._ Daddy stared into my mommy's eyes, somewhat like begging for something. _And yet, even if he was there with me the whole time, it's just like I'm living in a freezer all day. Alone._ He finished with a sigh. My mommy said why not try to talk to him? And daddy just _pssh_ -ed, seemed had given up on that idea from the very first.

However, as the time passed, in the next week later that, the table finally got turned around. I saw Uncle Jo again in one of the hospital's rooms. Broke down into a cry, as we saw daddy got rushed into an emergency room. He got shot by some bad guys in the field. He was in some critical situation.

 _"It was my fault,"_ he said, quietly—almost like a whimper. _"He was... he was shielding me. I had no idea what for, but I've forgotten that it was me who wore the bulletproof vest. Not him. I... oh, good God, it should've been me. Myra, I'm so... sorry. It should've been me... he gave me the bulletproof vest because he knows I'm all bold and reckless, but—oh Jesus, what have I done... He's my partner, and yet..."_ I couldn't hear the rest because I was too panic, too worried, to focus on even one thing. I saw mommy didn't cry, but her face got paler. She just... moved slowly to gave him pats on the back, and told him that it's not his fault; my daddy had always been a stubborn guy after all. And she asked, what about the bad guys? Uncle Jo said he... once again, I couldn't hear the rest.

But above all that, doctors told us that daddy made it. I was so excited, so I hugged mommy as she sighed in relieve, and Uncle Jo just sat there on the bench for visitors buried his face on his hands, and mumbled; _your stubbornness is a gift, Seb. It's a gift for me._

Later then, I remember that I've asked daddy about this, _"Daddy, why do you have so many scars? Does Uncle Jo got it, too?"_ I mentioned this, too, because I was reminded to what mommy had said before. _He's so pristine._

 _"Yes, of course he got it, too. But not as many as I have."_ Said daddy, and I nodded.

 _"Is it because you often protecting him, daddy?"_ I asked once more, and he nodded in return.

 _"Though he's a reckless guy, it's often me that got hit by the mess he made."_ He grinned at me, and pat my head. _"But that's how it works, baby girl. We're partners after all."_ He added, this time with only a quick smile. _I got hit by his mess, he got hit by something different entirely..._ he continued; a mumble, with a sigh. He looked worried than ever. _Indeed something different entirely._

I think, the fact is, after everything, the reason why I know about Uncle Jo so much is my daddy. I realized that I've never met his family, ever. Or even his other friend, or girlfriend, or wife... It's only just him, and my daddy. For more than 8 years, and my entire life, it's just them. But, maybe... it's not just them, entirely. It's more to the individuals.

I often caught daddy smiled to himself when he was looking at a case after work on his hand. Then he fished out his phone and called Uncle Jo. They talked all night long, mostly about the case, but there were also some other things because daddy laughed or chuckled a few times.

I also, sometimes, caught a huge change of Uncle Jo; the hazy differences between when he's around daddy, and he's without daddy. And I felt like a detective. _It's about finding something visible, or invisible. You thought it's not there but it's actually right there; right in front of you._ And what lost was there, something on his eyes, when he's not with daddy. _Eyes like honey,_ I agreed with that. The bright thing that reflected on the others. It's back again, I'm here in the back porch with him. Uncle Jo still hasn't answer any of my question.

He just sat there, neck got a little bit twisted as his head turned to look around, and stopped at one spot. The spot that I had been asking around to myself for these past few minutes. The only spot of why he's still here and not at work. And perhaps, it's the only spot of _something_ that actually got him, other than his own mess because it's my daddy's thing in return.

I saw my daddy standing there, talking to our neighbor.

And it hit me.

It was something that made him loved me so much. It was something that made him really mean it. It was something that made him want to be my godfather. And also something that made him to stay here with us. But I don't know whether it's the reason of him wearing those black leather gloves; or maybe my daddy was just joking back then? I don't even know. Though I heard someone once said, it's somehow a symbolize about fighting against something for human rights. And I still don't know. However, my daddy once committed to himself, that he would fight against everything if it's against Uncle Jo. He would. Since he said that Uncle Jo was from different race around this town. And so does my daddy. They're both different, and they had each others back.

And I think that's what had Uncle Jo from the very beginning. It hit him pretty bad.


End file.
